Remember Me
by PenguinofProse
Summary: A Bellarke re-imagining of 2.09: Remember Me. Featuring plenty of "I can't lose you, too" and "love is weakness" and "I was being weak".


**a/n So "Remember Me" is probably my all-time favourite episode, for so many reasons. And, of course, the Bellarke angle is one of those reasons. So then I rewatched it today, so obviously this happened...**

Bellamy knows that he is having a bad day.

But it seems that, somehow, he knows this with his head more than he feels it in his heart and – well – one of those two has always been the stronger.

He's mourning Finn. Of course he is. Finn was one of his people, his companion in the wake of the Grounder attack on the dropship camp, and even, occasionally, his friend. And now he's dead. But this is the ground, and people die every day on the ground.

Clarke telling him that she _can't lose him too_, on the other hand - that's less of an everyday occurrence.

And so it is that he finds his heart incongruously hopeful as he walks this wretched road to TonDC, and tries not to get too excited as he reads her expression. It's not just the words, which are somehow laden with enough cause for optimism to launch a thousand ships in their own right. No, the look in her eyes is telling him even more, that burning need that peeps through the mournful mask she's trying so hard to hold in place.

It seems that, somehow, somewhere along the line, she has come to need him just as much as he needs her, and it makes his heart glad to feel it. And he can't help thinking that, really, that look she gave him implied that there might be a bit more to this odd codependent relationship they seem to have fallen into than just sharing the responsibilities of leadership.

But he knows he's having a bad day, of course. He must remember to look appropriately downcast, he reminds himself fiercely. He must remember, too, that she has no idea how much that sentence has made his day, in spite of the loss of one companion and the ongoing confinement of forty-seven more.

He must remember to find a way to show her, or tell her, when the moment is a little more appropriate than just now.

…...

He hopes that moment might have come, when she wanders over to the far side of the fire to roll out her bedding for the night. He can't help but think that, perhaps, this might be a good opportunity to show her how much he cares about her, and to make a bit of progress with his self-appointed mission to protect her from anything and everything this hostile planet can throw at her.

So it is that he approaches her without hesitation and, he hopes, without the guarded expression that he has worn for as long as he cares to remember. He wants her to see just how much he needs her, too, wants her to be able to read him just as he read her this morning.

"What are you doing, Clarke? It's safer on our side."

"We need to trust them, Bellamy. There are no more sides."

"OK." He sets down his bedroll by the side of hers, sets about getting ready for the night. "Then I'm staying here. Because I can't lose you, either."

She doesn't answer that in words. She simply looks up at him, eyes burning ever more peepholes in that mournful mask, and reaches out to squeeze his hand.

That's that settled, then. He curls up by her side and prepares to get little sleep. Not because he's _distracted by her nearness_, not anything so foolish as that. No, he finds nothing but peace in her proximity. It's just because he figures that he can protect her much better if he stays wide awake.

…...

There is nothing he can do, though, to protect her from that burning torch, from the memory that he supposes will be burned onto her conscience forever of being the one to light Finn's funeral pyre. No, he can no more protect her from that than he could protect her from wielding the knife that killed him. He hopes, later, that he might be able to help her bear it, might stay by her side while she makes a little more progress with letting her feelings show through. But for now all he can do is watch, alarmed and confused beyond belief, while the most frightening woman he has ever met spouts a loud of rubbish he can barely hear, but which, as far as he can make out, seems to consist of some litany of lies about the weakness of love.

But then he asks himself, rather abruptly, whether she might be onto something. He's feeling distinctly faint, just now, as he watches Clarke go through this trauma, and he can't help but assume that there's some link between the sudden trembling of his fingers, the sudden ringing in his ears, and the way he feels about the stricken young woman who stands, in this moment, just beyond his reach.

He forces himself to wait. To be patient. To remember that he will be able to show her, later, just how much he cares, when he is by her side once more. Where he belongs.

Except, somehow, when _later_ rolls around, he isn't by her side. When they sit down to eat, and Kane proffers a bottle of moonshine and makes a point of inserting himself into the midst of this alliance, there are somehow _whole entire place settings _between Bellamy and Clarke, and he cannot quite fathom it. He cannot remember, now he comes to think of it, the last mealtime that they did not sit side by side.

It must have been when she was in Mount Weather. That last time he failed to protect her.

Of course, while he is lost in this train of thought, the poison catches him napping. One moment, he is seething about something as trivial as the seating arrangements, and the next, that huge grounder who is Lexa's right-hand-man is collapsing onto the table.

It takes him a precious second to gather his wits. A second too long to knock the goblet out of Clarke's hand.

She is fine, thank goodness, and unharmed. And in the turmoil that follows, he seeks out her eyes, again and again, determined to find a moment to remind her that he will always protect her, even if he was a little slow to do so on this occasion.

But somehow, today, her eyes are rather more elusive than they were yesterday, on the road or at the fireside. Somehow her walls are very much _up_, and somehow her heart is very well hidden. And it worries him even more than the disintegration of the alliance, even more than the imminent threat to Raven's life.

Because if Clarke isn't functioning, they're all dead.

And he thinks that, probably, if Clarke isn't functioning, he's most dead of all.

…...

He remembers that thought often, as the evening passes. She functions for long enough to work it out, thank goodness, to get Raven off that most alarming of almost literal hooks, and solve the problem of where the poison ended up. But even then, it seems, she is not exactly functioning at her best. She can't solve the problem of where the poison actually _came from_, but at least he is there to wade in and save her.

It's not a difficult problem for him to solve, really. He knows what it's like, to be prepared to go to such lengths to protect someone. To be prepared to put his own wellbeing on the line for hers.

But once the crisis is averted, it seems that Clarke retreats back inside of herself, remembers that she has decided to hide behind those walls.

Remembers that she is not truly _Clarke_, today.

It hurts him to see it. It hurts him so, so much to see it, just when he thought they were beginning to let each other in. Just when he thought she was beginning to let him see what's going on inside that well-hidden heart of hers. And it has him realising, quite abruptly, that he is having really rather a bad day.

It hurts even more, when his sister calls him out on it. When they sit around the fire, and he gazes at Clarke's hostile back, and his sister reminds him quite by accident that, if Clarke doesn't remember how to function, he's the most dead of all, in so many ways.

"Look at the thanks he gets."

It's stupid, and petty, and inconsistent with his mission to make Clarke's protection his priority, but his first feeling is humiliation. Deep and searing embarrassment that his sister is seeing him moon pathetically like this over a woman who, to the outside world, appears to give him absolutely nothing back. Appears impassive, and disinterested, and distinctly _un_touched.

He shakes himself, mentally. Remembers with great force of will that, in fact, she _can't lose him too_, and that they will work this out. Together.

He's on the point of telling his sister something to that effect, sticking up for Clarke's softer side and defending her against the implicit accusation that she is cold and unfeeling and without tenderness, when she walks over and proves that she is, at least temporarily, all three of those things.

"We need an inside man. You were right. Without someone on the inside to lower their defences and turn off the acid fog, an army's useless. You should go."

"I thought you hated that plan." He reminds her, equal parts concerned about her state of mind and furious that she's proving his sister right. "That I would get myself killed."

"I was being weak. It's worth the risk. My map of Mount Weather." He finds a folded sheet being thrust into his hand, hears Clarke continuing to speak, but he's not listening. No, his heart has finally caught up with his head, and he has finally made sense of what she just said.

She was_ being weak_.

And he remembers those snatches of broken conversation he overheard at the pyre, remembers the sudden change in the way she was looking at him. Remembers, too, that she can't lose him.

And suddenly he knows what he has to do.

She's walking away, now, has turned her back to him and started striding back towards Lexa, but he's not having that. He needs to remind her of a couple of key facts, and she damn well needs to listen. He makes haste to follow her, and grabs at her hand.

"Clarke."

"What is it, Bellamy?" That mask is firmly in place, but he reckons there is something he can do about that.

He keeps hold of her hand, and says his piece.

"I need you to remember something, for me, Clarke, when I'm in there. I need you to remember that I don't take orders from you."

She bristles at that, snatches her hand away. "You need to go, Bellamy. You know it's the best chance we've got of getting our people back."

"I know that." He says, as evenly as possible, through the lump in his throat. "I know it's our best chance, and I'm going. But I need you to remember that I don't take orders from you, because when I'm in that mountain, and you're blaming yourself for it, I won't be here to remind you that it was my idea. And if I don't come home – _especially_ if I don't come home – I need you to remember that _this was all on me_."

That gets her attention.

"You're coming home, Bellamy." She bites the sentence out as if angry. "You're going to come home."

"Be realistic, Clarke. It's not going to be easy. And if I don't make it, you need to promise that you'll remember me saying this, that you'll remember me -"

"_Of course_ I'll remember you." The words burst out of her, raw and heartfelt, and for the first time since that funeral pyre he feels like he's actually looking Clarke Griffin in the eye. "I remember every damn word you've ever said to me, Bellamy Blake, but that does not mean you have my permission to go _die on me_. I already told you, _I can't lose you_."

"Then why the hell are you so keen for me to go do this?" It makes no sense to him. It makes _less_ than no sense to him.

"Because the longer I keep you close, the more likely I am to lose you."

"How'd you figure that one out? Surely running around Mount Weather is a bit more dangerous than staying here."

"Because the people close to me _die_." She grinds out with no small amount of bitterness. "And because it's only a matter of time before someone uses you to get to me. Uses you to – to hurt me."

With that, suddenly, all of this makes a bit more sense.

"Clarke." He braves a step towards her, reaches a hand towards her shoulder. Doesn't touch her, not quite, but has his fingers hover close enough that he can feel her warmth. "When I die – which will hopefully not be for a while yet – it will be because this planet is dangerous, and we're surrounded by hostiles. It won't be because you dared to care about me. Could you please remember that while I'm gone, too? Could you please do that for me?"

"You're still going?" She asks, voice quivering.

"Yeah. But not because you told me to. Because I _need_ to. You going to remember that, for me?"

By way of response, she engulfs him in a hug. Nods against his neck, a couple of stray tears leaking onto the collar of his shirt. Squeezes him tight around the waist, and this time he feels rather than sees that wall she has hoisted around her heart crumble to dust. He takes a risk, then, presses his lips gently to the crown of her head before he pulls away. Leaves his hands on her upper arms as he looks down at her, smile incongruously bright for what is, all things considered, such a bad day.

"I need to go now and get our people back. You going to be alright?"

"Yeah." She nods, putting on a brave face. But somehow, this brave face is at least not the mask she was wearing earlier. "Look after yourself. And come home."

"I don't take orders from you." He smiles sadly, because he thinks that coming home might be something he doesn't have much control over, on this occasion.

"I know. It's not an order. It's a _request_. Because I think we have more memories to make, when you get back."

"I'll hold you to that." He promises, giving a final, gentle squeeze of her arms and then withdrawing her hands. "May we meet again."

"May we meet again." She echoes, darting forward to press a kiss to his jawline.

And then she is gone, dashing her hands across her eyes, striding away towards Kane and Abby and, no doubt, towards some grand scheme to save the world. And he turns, and seeks out Lincoln, and they set out towards Mount Weather, towards danger, and towards, quite possibly, being hung upside down and drained of their blood.

Bellamy knows that he is having a bad day. But, try as he might, his heart just doesn't seem to have noticed.

**a/n Thanks for reading!**


End file.
